


Iridescent

by ShadowSelene (Shadowdianne)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 11:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20891429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowdianne/pseuds/ShadowSelene
Summary: One word prompt: Iridescent preferably Cissamione but whatever pairing you like. Asked by wooden-turtle back at tumblr





	Iridescent

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Did someone say AU? Oh wait, I did :P Thanks fusagi, for the prompt. Hope you like it ;)
> 
> Set on: Steampunk-ish ‘verse because I’m sorry if you didn’t know this, people, but I adore writing AUs. -The rules for this world are totally written down but for the sake of exposition, I’ve left many things unsaid. Hope you like the clues I’ve painted tho’ :P
> 
> Smallish note: Feels weird to be writing solely for this pair for the time being. I apologize if some typo regarding who is the brunette and who the blonde end up being slipping up within the text.

_ **[ˌɪrɪˈdɛsənt]** _

_ **Having or exhibiting iridescence.** _

_ **iridescence** _

_ **A lustrous rainbowlike play of color caused by differential refraction of light waves (as from an oil slick, soap bubble, or fish scales) that tends to change as the angle of view changes** _

Hermione stood as the pitter-patter of the rain descended upon her, the drops not strong enough to make her follow the shadows she could see moving up and down the road that extended beyond the carefully decorated shrubs that delimited the borders of the Black state. Biting on her bottom lip, she glanced at the illuminated mansion, at the reds and oranges of the fairy lights that had been magicked with deals she would probably be able to concoct on her mind even if she wasn’t able to reproduce cast an almost eerie glow around the building. An aura she knew wasn’t the entire truth of the place nor the party she was able to enter.

And, indeed, the colors bled into each other, mixing into the black night in where the lights from the lampposts at her back felt almost like punctures into the belly of a beast that the explorers sent to every other corner of the known and unknown world were still trying to discover. Enough, she found herself thinking, to make her look down towards her booted feet and the puddles that were shyly beginning to make an apparition in the soil of the crafted garden. The liquid formed lines around sigils in where deals made out of rubies and steam lost each other under the darkened grass. There, reflected by a moonless night, the colors felt almost like an oil spill; one she could almost feel coating her fingers if she ever dared to kneel and touch the ground: thick and inviting but dangerous nonetheless.

She had worked for the Ministry for a short period of time, but she had seen some of the machines made by far too curious unspeakable explode and corrode everything around them; magic spilling, unbidden and raw. She felt the same sensation she had felt the very first time she had walked into a still cleaning cubicle, magic glimmering from the walls, breathing, alive. This time, however, there weren’t incantations dribbling from the ceiling nor runes beginning to lose their shapes if one dared to look at them long enough; the manor, the building, was on itself an eerie reminder of a pull she wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about it.

The rumors of a party back at Black manor had been floating around the highest circles of London’s society and, maybe, the lowest as well. Whispers made in the darkest places of the Knockturn’s Alley where one could find deals with the Faes for only a few knuts; intricate designs no wizard nor witch would be able to replicate in order to make a spell to work; clickety wands dripping ichor in the hands of those who had given far too much for those scrolls and sigils with the empty hope of getting whatever they have given back twice over. Which had been the reason why, when an angry owl followed by an even more ruffled memorandum had arrived at Hermione’s desk, she had been quite surprised at the sight of the simple yet elegant handwriting asking her to go to the dinner itself.

_“Remember to not stare at the other side of mirrors; you never can know what lies behind.”_

Those had been the only words Draco had been able to tell her when the brunette had asked him why her, of all people. She was part of the Golden Trio after all; the ones who had destroyed everything the families like the ones that were most likely to be present had tried to fight for. Trials said and done, many were the ones who still walked free and while Hermione felt afloat beyond the shaky line her mental health had been reduced to, she still could feel her entire being shaking as she shook her head one more time before stepping firmly into the puddles, water splashing and the image of bleeding colors disappearing into the mist.

Gulping as much crisp air as she was able to, the young witch approached the main door of the mansion, the gravel protesting beneath her as she grazed the simple, yet effective rune sewed in the insides of her right pocket. Warmth beginning to graze up her arms, through her veins, she chewed on her bottom lip as she took into the glamourized façade of the building.

It was pristine, like glass, and Hermione felt the burning need to touch the shimmering surface despite her prior doubts, her mind already going over the enchantments and formulas that it would make such thing possible while not making muggles suspicious. They were far too many, she decided, and so she hummed to herself for a few more seconds before she knocked once, twice.

Harry hadn’t been too keen on her going to the party. He hadn’t said it so but one didn’t spend eight years saving someone else’s life while not picking a few tells and the dark-haired man had been all worry and nerves the moment Hermione had dropped the invitation on his lap pretending -as she always did- that Ron’s absence could easily be explained by work rather than the truth that the man didn’t want to see her. Not after their break up.

Harry, for all his obvious worries, hadn’t disagreed openly with her when she had admitted she was curious enough to attend. The Black mansion was, after all, an illusion on itself; a memory of a kind of grandeur that didn’t truly exist anymore and Hermione, being who she was, felt the need to step into the oil-stained walls, glance at portraits of those who represented what had been defeated once and for all.

The fact she left away when Harry had asked for an explanation was much simpler and had the color of icy blue, the shape of a recently divorced witch, the scent of lilac and words exchanged in hallways under brittle promises. She was thinking about those when the door cracked open, a man -not an elf- letting her enter with nothing but a quick glance to her clothes and the invitation she was already offering to him, a sudden burst of flame and smoke engulfing the paper before the fire disappeared. Paper intact.

“Follow me, miss.”

Hermione did, eyes drinking into the moth wing-like texture of the walls, the blacks, greens and silvers that jumped from every other corner, the labyrinth-like designs etched at the halls carpet.

Power, as she found herself thinking, could be shown in many ways. The mansion had its own and it wasn’t afraid to showcase it and there was a warning there, a ripple in a pond, that disappeared too quickly the second the doors of another room opened for her; mutters of voices dying down the second she left the presence of the chamberlain again; ready to walk back to lightened corners.

Which, she found herself realizing, didn’t seem like a possibility as many critical eyes fell upon her. She didn’t feel afraid, there were very few things that could actually make her feel that way after all, after everything but she felt robbed of her ability to breathe until her eyes landed in those that she had been thinking about seconds before; just as azure as she had pictured them.

If the house was, by itself, a proof of power despite the decaying edges of the society that had built it once, Narcissa was a masterpiece; a creature that made her feel at loss. Dressed in a burgundy shade so dark it looked almost black under the fairy lights, the hostess approached her with the ice on her pupils bleeding into the warmth keener to appear next to a fireplace. Skin prickling, senses tingling, Hermione fought against a blush that threatened to rise up her neck, the promise of a party all but forgotten as the older witch narrowed her eyes at the fact that she was still downing her coat.

A detail that was quickly arranged by the solicitous chamberlain, his hands quick and efficient under Narcissa’s eyes.

“I wasn’t sure if you would take upon the invitation.”

Hermione bit down on her bottom lip; the movement catching the blonde’s attention for a second that felt far too long as the ticking noise of nearby clock rose and fell, crashing against them both. Bubbles growing on her lungs, threatening to expand to the point of pain, Hermione thought back to the hexes and warnings, to the threats and wishes she could feel bleeding and reaching for her, for her hands and wand and needs.

Maybe she liked to feel a little reckless.

“I would never have missed it.”


End file.
